T.J.'s Tale1st-place ending

Sunday

Oct 28, 2012 at 12:01 AM

By Ellen Cleveland, Burlington

Synopsis

T.J. has been causing some trouble at school lately, and Jordan's mom isn't too happy about them hanging out. But it's Halloween night, and T.J. talks his friend and a carload of pals into driving into the cemetery, where he leads them to the grave site of their principal's wife. Since Mr. McMartin's wife died, T.J. has been telling everyone the principal killed her. But he says they aren't just rumors. He is certain it was murder, and produces a Ouija board to help him prove it.

I wait for him to crack a harmless smile like the other times he had pulled a good one over the teachers. But instead he throws the flashlight down, its beam lighting up Frances's name. No one laughs, but we are struck silent, only hearing T.J.'s screams echo in our heads.

I try to pull myself together and go through the facts. T.J. must be lying. I remember a few months ago when T.J.'s mom died. At least I remember when he hadn't shown up at the skate park for a week where we usually hung out. I called his cell at least a billion times to ask him where he had been. He told me to mind my own stupid business. He'd never been one to share his personal life. I'd never even been to his Dad's house before. When he was fed up with my questions, he blurted out, "My mom died! That enough information for you?" and hung up the phone. I'd never heard about his mom before, except that she had divorced his Dad in the second grade, before I met T.J. He only shared details of his mom's death after I'd spent two more weeks prying answers out of him. Apparently his mom was killed in a car accident on a business trip.

Remembering his mother's death, I knew I needed to break the silence. T.J. could put on a scary show for everyone else, but he couldn't fool me.

"T.J., cut the crap. You told me you mom died in a car accident. You think you can scare us like a bunch of sissies, just because you can scream really loud?" I say suddenly.

"Is that what you think, Jordan? That I'm just telling you some spooky story? That I can somehow make up the memory of my mother's murder?" T.J. says bitterly.

I wonder how we could be friends. T.J. has mastered the art of casting everything in the most cynical light, or in this case, the most cynical darkness imaginable. Kayla begins to shudder next to me, and I know Jake must be having the willies across the circle. Robby and Chris speak up, calling him out as a fake, but from their stuttering, I can tell they have the spooks too. I know, as the best friend, I have to call this sham off, no matter how well T.J. can act.

T.J. laughs and picks up the flashlight, turning it off and on while he speaks and paces within our circle. Every other second, he puts us in total darkness while telling his even darker tale.

"You guys don't know what scared is. I know what scared feels like. No, try terrified. It's walking in on a murder in action. He's standing before the closed shower curtain, his fists clenched. Steam is rising from the showerhead. I can hear my mom humming a little melody. He whips open the curtain and grabs her head and bashes it against the faucet. After three blows, she drops,"

Even though disturbed, I catch something off in T.J.'s story. "Wait a minute. You said your mom was killed in a car accident, not in a bathtub. Frances McMartin was the only one who died in a bathtub," I say.

T.J. replies, "Exactly. My mom didn't die in a car crash. She was killed in a bathtub by Mr. McMartin."

Kayla has regained her composure. "T.J., are you saying that Mrs. McMartin was your Mom? That's absurd. You're no principal's son."

T.J. smiles and says, "Ah, very good. You're catching on. I'm no principal's son, but I am Frances McMartin's son. She divorced my dad and then married McMartin. I never told anyone, because I didn't want them knowing that Principal McMartin was my step-dad."

T.J.'s hidden life begins to unfold before us, but Kayla still keeps her cool.

She asks, "If this is all true, why were you at Mr. McMartin's house? Why weren't you at your Dad's house that day?"

"Like I told Jordan, she was going on a business trip. She stopped by my house to say goodbye, kissing my forehead-you know, sappy mom stuff. But she left her briefcase in my living room. I drove to her house, the McMartin house, to give it back to her. I knew she wanted to shower and pick up a few things there before she left. The door was open-I'd been in a hundred times. I called out her name, but no answer. Eventually I went upstairs. That's when I found him," T.J. mutters angrily. We don't question him but remain under his storytelling spell.

"When he bashed her head, I dropped my mom's briefcase. The papers spilled out and fell into little puddles of water on the tile. He didn't hear me, because the shower was still going. I stood and stared at him, trying hard to breathe in the steamy room. He shut off the water and turned around, seeing me. That's when he grabbed the gun."

"He said that if I ever told anyone, he'd shoot me. He told me to nod if I understood how this would work. I wanted to run toward him, grab his gun, and point it to his skull. I'd clean him off real good," T.J. says in the darkness.

"But I didn't shoot him. Maybe it was the shock or fear of getting shot-you just can't know in those moments. He told me to leave and forget. I left, but I didn't forget."

"Somehow he got away with it. He spun the story that she had fallen in the bathtub and hit her head on the shower handle. The coroner said the same thing, seeing her head injury. McMartin must've paid him off to halt further investigations. For the next month, everyone pitied him. He was the poor widower, accepting people's casseroles and condolences without a single slip up. I hated every minute of it, but I knew no one would believe me. So, I made up the story of the car accident when Jordan asked me."

T.J. slowly kneels to the ground and reaches inside his black bag. He pulls out white candles and positions them around our circle, lighting each one.

He says, "It's the three-month anniversary of my mother's death. It's time for someone to know what he did. We're going to talk to her. She'll tell us the truth."

T.J. explains how the sťance works and motions for us to sit down and join hands. We close our eyes, still under T.J.'s trance, as he speaks to his mother.

"Mother, come to us this night. Speak to us in this blackness, and show us who killed you. With our fingers over this piece, tell us who Mr. McMartin really is."

Each of our fingers carefully hovers over the Ouija piece. A chill runs up my arm. What is happening? What's true here? Could Mrs. McMartin really speak to us?

The piece moves slowly. On the smooth wooden surface, the letters spell out K-I-L-L-E-R. At the R, T.J.'s arm pulls back with a jerk. He breathes in quickly like her spirit has filled him.

"I feel her," he says as his eyes glow in the candlelight.

We draw our hands slowly away from the board. After moments of shocked silence, T.J. blows out the candles and places them in his bag. He leads us back to my car, and we drive home. No one speaks, but as I let T.J. out a few blocks away from his house, he begins to walk in the opposite direction. I roll down the window.

"T.J., where are you going?" I yell.

He turns around, his eyes lit brilliantly by the orange streetlight above him.

"I've got to scare someone while it's still Halloween!"

He turns his back to me and keeps walking in the direction of the McMartin house. Suddenly I realize that the Ouija board wasn't the only thing in his black bag this Halloween night. T.J. clutches a black handgun at his side, ready to finish his tale.

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